issu e. 1 | volu m e. 1
WHAT'S DONE IN THE DARK f eat u r in g
AN ARTIST PORTRAIT SERIES by Leigh a St iles
Does the dark conjure feelings of fear, or do you come alive when you know night is near? What happens when the sun disappears to be replaced by the moon? Do you worry that daylight won't ever come soon? What monsters lurk inside your head? To torment you as you lay in bed? Shadows that display look like snarling teeth, And the noises from the outside come up from beneath to rise up in a fury, the fear that it sparks... Leaves you wondering , just exactly...
WHAT'S DONE IN THE DARK?
WE'REALLINTRANSITION I qu est ion ed you r m ovem en t s u n t il I began t o m ir r or t h em . I w on der ed w h at you saw w ay dow n t h er e, ben eat h t h e cr ow ds of people, becau se you n ever look ed u p. Not t o m e, at least . You w ou ld st u t t er in you r speech , an d I w on der ed w h y you r lies st ar t ed t o sou n d so good t o m e. A w ar m w om b t h at I w as k ept in , t h e t r u t h began t o f ade. It w as m y t r ain I h ad t o cat ch t h at w as pu llin g aw ay. It w as m y sh ot in t h e dar k I k n ew I sh ou ld t ak e.
WRITTEN BY: ADRIANA GREEN
It?s just that traveling won?t get you very far, you know.
DEVILIN THE DETAILS WRITTENBY: ADRIANAGREEN
You; still wrapped up in that blanket; a comfortable cocoon. Still caught up in dreams. You; still trembling at the feet of the unknown, And I; longing to know the feeling of a night without a single ounce of doubt. And them; throwing what they know to see what sticks. It?s funny isn?t it? The semantics of a language. The properties of purpose. The measure of a man. All relative, Too palatable, Yet elusive to the touch. Then the paradigm shifts (warning; this might hurt a bit) And time can be broken and divided amongst all the many ways we try to streamline our guilt and our shame. We just can?t carry around all of this extra weight. You, gaining balance from the spinning thoughts. You, the centre of your own universe. You, a student that has yet to seek. But will follow the tug, and will meet yourself everywhere you go. It?s just that traveling won?t get you very far, you know, If you refuse to take the higher road.
""MAYBEBECAUSE OFMADNESS ORMATTERSOF THEHEART, I FELLINTOA RABBITHOLE RATHERDEEP ANDDARK"" - ADRIANAGREEN
M Y GHOST STILL HAUNTS THE HALLS OF KGH WRITTEN BY: ALYSSA COOPER
It's never dark in the ICU. The ICU is perpetual twilight, monitors like moonlight, my skin is blue, here. I'm breathing ice while my mother breathes through a tube, I?m stuck awake while she floats dreamless, while her veins are pumping white. There is a lamb running loose through these hospital halls, bleating and bleeding, I can hear its hooves?bony clatter on scarred tile, I can smell its knotted wool; from the waiting room, I can see its shadow bouncing off the walls. In the waiting room, darkness is a bridge between two bodies. The waiting room is velvet sky, metronomes echo like cave walls, here, the waiting room is a womb of cotton. No sound, no feeling, I don?t have time to cut myself in the hospital, and the lamb is waiting just outside the door, watching me, accusing me, the lamb is screaming silent. Down the hall, angels float on the ceiling, their voices the gasp of the ventilator, and I seek words in the wordless song. This moment makes me understand why humans found language, found words for all the things that were once wordless, trying to make sense of senselessness, trying to make shape of the shapeless, and in the silent nights that follow, I will itch for sound. These things I remember, the lamb, both newborn and slaughter bound, it was nine years ago and it was yesterday, it is now, it is every time I close my eyes in a twilit room, it is easier to forget than to remember, but remembering is critical, the smell of latex, the endless alarms, the thickened air of waiting and maybes, and my ghost still haunts the halls of KGH. She rattles chains and she drinks from IVs. She remembers the things that I have forgotten ? she knows the words that I left without.